


The Sundance Kids

by nomwrites



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Episode Tag, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, HP AU, Harry Whump, Mel whump, harry and mel are best friends and their lack of scenes together in season 2 won't change my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21815002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomwrites/pseuds/nomwrites
Summary: A series of episode tags, missing scenes, and one-shots which prominently feature Harry and Mel's friendship.Chapter 1: post 2.06 tagChapter 2: HP AU (First Year)Chapter 3: Mel whump, Harry whump (Ray's POV)
Relationships: Harry Greenwood & Mel Vera, Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 32
Kudos: 45





	1. post 2.06 tag

Mel stretches on the couch, drifting in the liminal space between exhaustion and restlessness. She should be sleeping — for the first time in what feels like weeks, her entire family is under the same roof, cloaked and protected from the danger hunting them all. There will be no more missions tonight, no vigils at the command center. Abigael is in the wind but they can handle her. The assassin is dead. It’s as safe as they’re going to get. 

And yet.

The thought of sleeping now feels… offensive. Worse, it feels like an invitation. The events of the past few days — hell, of the past few weeks — have driven home that nowhere is safe for them and there’s jack shit she can do about it. Helplessness has seeped into her bones and a toxic blend of anger and paranoia is keeping her constantly wired. Even now, she can’t help but stare at the door, waiting for something worse to come along; waiting for something to come barging into their home to try to hurt them again. 

If that happens, she thinks to herself with a bitter snort, they probably won’t bother with the door. With their luck, the next asshole looking for trouble will be another teleporter. But with their potion supply depleted in the search for Macy and no ingredients at hand to make more unless she breaks into Kat’s shop, vigilance and a handful of half-remembered spells are the only things she can offer her. 

God, she’s tired of being useless. 

Familiar footsteps pad down the stairs, sharp and even despite the events of the day. She curses herself for the need to look, to check, eyes roving over his face, his empty hands — watching the way he moves just to be sure. 

The assassin is gone, she reminds herself, trying to erase his face from her mind. 

(Macy says he called himself Jimmy, but it makes Harry flinch and it’s a stupid name anyway, so Mel refuses to use it even in her own head. May the bastard rot in hell.)

“You’re a fucking idiot,” she says, turning her gaze back towards the door.

“I know.”

The cushions dip beside her, cold space replaced by a warm presence and the smell of tea and bourbon. Neither smell hides the lingering traces of lavender patchouli — the kind that Macy keeps in her room.

She sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

When he’d come back earlier, blank-faced and hollow-eyed while he told them what happened, she’d wanted to shake him, yell at him. Fortunately, Maggie had been a pacifying presence, quick to wrap him up in a hug and calming the rest of them down. But now that they’re alone and he’s sitting right next to her, solid and real with nothing else to divert her attention, the flood of emotions she’s been tamping down is rising quick. Gritting her teeth, she spits out, “That was the stupidest, most reckless thing you’ve ever done.”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to do it alone.” Just a couple of months back he’d be the one saying this to her, trying to curb her impulsiveness. The role reversal is unsettling. She glares at the door instead of looking at him directly. “You could have died. Permanently this time.”

“Better than any of you getting hurt again.”

The words are tight and angry. Angrier than she’s ever heard from him. She tears her eyes away from the door, studying the stiff line of his shoulders, the harsh angle of his clenched jaw. He’s staring at his hands, eyes hard and dark as if he doesn’t quite recognize them. Or as if he’s accusing them of something.

She sighs again and kicks his ankle.

“Ow!” Harry yelps, whipping his head around to give her an indignant look. He reaches down to rub at the abused spot which puts him at the perfect height to flick his ear. Batting her hand away, he scoots down the couch until he’s out of arm’s reach but she’s ready, hair-tie wound around her fingers like a slingshot. The look of extreme irritation on his face as it plonks off his forehead is incredibly satisfying. “ _Stop it._ What’s gotten into you?”

“You being stupid is what.” Abandoning the door completely, she twists around to face him squarely. He looks wary, brow knotted into a frown, but he holds her gaze when she demands it wordlessly. “None of this is your fault. It wasn’t—” _you_ , she almost says but catches herself in time, “—your fault that the Elders fucked everything up. And it’s not your fault that some new asshole out there is trying to one-up them now.” She holds a hand up to stop the protest she can see forming in his mouth. “The Darklighter thing is messed up and I can’t imagine what that’s like for you, but Harry, being a goddamn martyr isn’t gonna help. This isn’t on you to fix. It’s on _us._ Our family. We have each other’s backs, remember? That’s how it works.”

He stares at her with wide eyes, mouth half-open. Whatever arguments he has seems to have vanished like smoke. Then he presses his lips together into a thin line, white and bloodless on his already pale face, and she realizes she’s put her foot in her mouth like she always does. 

_ What the hell do you know about half your soul turning out to be an evil murderous bastard, Mel Vera?  _

She’s opening her mouth to apologize when Harry suddenly starts laughing. It bursts out of him like water from a dam, loud and free until he’s doubled-over and she can’t help but snort at the picture he makes. Their Safe Space colleagues might prefer the brooding romantic look on him (Mel’s seen more than a few men and women giving Harry appreciative glances, especially in the past few stressful days), but as far as she’s concerned, the dork trying to stop laughing long enough to actually talk is infinitely preferable.

“Breathe, Harry,” she says, wishing she had her phone on her when he tries to talk and laugh at the same time and only ends up choking on air. She rolls her eyes, sliding over to pound his back. “What’s so funny anyway?”

“It’s just—” A little giggle escapes his mouth. “It’s just that I’m remembering the department team-building workshop we went to last year and the rather memorable part you took in it. The juxtaposition is...” He gestures at her, grinning. “Quite stark.”

The tops of Mel’s ears suddenly feel hot, an image of her standing on a table ripping into their perky moderator’s saccharine speeches about friendship and teamwork flashing through her head. She folds her arms against her chest, looking away as she mutters, “Oh shut up.” 

“If only they could see you now. What was it you said? ‘You can shove your pep up your—‘”

She beans him with a handy throw pillow which only sets him off again. Once he calms, he gives it back to her politely, eyes dancing with mirth. “You done?” she growls, brandishing the pillow threateningly.

“Mercy,” he says, hands in the air. 

Huffing, she hugs the pillow to her chest, turning back to watch the door again. “That’s the last pep talk I ever give you.”

“I hope not,” he says, so earnestly she can’t resist looking back at him. He tilts his head, smiling as warmly as he did when he’d thanked her for being with him in Manchester. “You’ve become quite good at it. Thank you.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna stop brooding now?”

“Probably not. But I give you express permission to hit me with a pillow any time I start in.”

She grins, one eyebrow cocked. “You got it, buddy.”

“Too laddish,” he says, grimacing. “I can’t recall the last time anyone called me ‘buddy’.”

“You got it… _mate_ ,” she says, trying on her best imitation of Harry’s accent but he only looks pained so she beans him in the face again.

They lapse into companionable silence after another round of laughter. Mel has no illusions that Harry will sleep any better tonight or that she’s managed to put a dent in the host of existential issues plaguing him. But he’s not looking at his hands like he wants to cut them off anymore and the way he’s melted into the cushions, like the couch potato he sometimes is, means he’s not thinking about all the shitty things in his life right now. It’s a small thing that will probably only last until he goes back upstairs, but it’s enough for now.

___________

The sound of water rushing through pipes overhead rouses Mel from her vigilant focus. She blinks at the ceiling, popping and stretching stiff muscles. 

“Macy must be taking a bath,” Harry says, eyes flicking up for a moment before he closes them again and settles back into the couch. 

“Good. She needs it.”

“Indeed.”

Mel remembers suddenly that she’s been meaning to tell him something since the night they’d realized why Macy wasn’t showing up on the Witchboard. With the rest of them running around non-stop trying to find her, there hadn’t been a right time to do it. 

She drums her fingers on her thigh, a staccato beat. Harry looks more relaxed right now than he’s been at any point in the past few days and she’s loathe to break that peace, but with the way their lives are going, this might be her only chance without some crisis interrupting them.

“Hey, Harry,” she says, waiting until he looks over. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize something was going on with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“What you told me and Maggie,” she says carefully, wary of spooking him. He glances away, staring determinedly at a spot on the carpet. She doesn’t expect him to just bolt — too decorous and British even under extreme stress — but he doesn’t shut her down either so she keeps going. “It’s pretty clear that I’ve missed things. I’m sorry about that.”

He looks back at her then, a frown on his face. “My personal… complications are not your responsibility. You don’t have to apologize for anything, Mel. It’s not on you to—”

“Of course it’s on me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re my best friend, you idiot, it’s my job to watch out for you.”

And for the second time that night, he doesn’t seem to know what to say.

She bumps her shoulder against his arm. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

“You started it,” he says, clearing his throat. “‘I’m not the one making declarations and speeches, am I?”

“Maybe you should be.” It’s clear that he knows what she means but he only sighs, silent and weary. Before the moment passes, she says, “You’ve talked to Macy, right?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t want to press, not really. Or at least, not yet. He deserves to be able to just sit here in complete silence if he wants. But this is the kind of thing that can fester and eat away at a person and they rarely have the luxury of time. 

“About what you said?” she prompts.

“No.”

“Harry—”

“She’s just been through quite an ordeal. An ordeal that she was put through by—” And now the anger is back, glinting through hard eyes and clenched teeth. 

(Was this what the Darklighter looked like, Mel wonders idly, realizing she never actually saw him with his mask off. And then mentally slaps the captain of her brain ship awake because that’s definitely not something she wants to be thinking about. She hates that there’s a tiny part of her now that will always be wondering—if only for a fraction of a second—if the man beside her can be trusted or not. His double is gone but the thought remains.) 

It takes Harry a moment to collect himself. By the time he speaks again, his jaw is still tight but his voice is calm. “By my doppelganger. Do you really think I should be adding to that?”

“Right. Sorry,” she says, a spike of guilt punching through her chest because once again she’s forgotten to consider Macy properly. What a mess it must be in her sister’s head right now. She hopes the bath is helping. Darting a glance at Harry reveals nothing readable — the stiff upper lip has come out in full force. There’s still one more question to ask but has she pushed too far? She asks it anyway. “But you’ll tell her eventually?”

“I think we’re done talking about this, Mel,” he says, not unkindly. Despite the even tone, she half expects him to get up and leave, fed up with her prodding, but he simply tips his shoulder against hers, arms crossed loosely against his chest. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” she says, her own shoulders relaxing. It’s comforting to know that he’s not about to run or push people away. “Okay. But anytime you want to talk—and I mean anytime—you know where to find me. And if not me, you know Maggie’s pretty good at this stuff. She’s got your back too.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good,” she says. Then remembering focus points from that disastrous team-building workshop and the importance of reinforcing ideas, she adds, “Good talk.” 

“Good talk?” A snuffling laugh, more breath than sound, ruffles the top of Mel’s head. “Perhaps I ought to take back what I said.”

“About?”

“Pep might not be for you, after all.”

“I can literally smother you with a pillow right now.”

“See? Not very peppy.”

___________

It’s close to midnight by the time the pipes fall completely silent. Harry doesn’t stir beside her, not even when the bathroom door closes a little too loudly. Mel wonders if he’s actually fallen asleep or if he’s been silently brooding this whole time. 

“Harry?” she says, ready to hit him at the first sign of a knotted brow. “Are you going Byron on me right now?”

Opening his eyes just to roll them at her is the kind of petty that’s been missing from him lately, so she grins at him unrepentantly. He opens his mouth to say something — probably how offended he is to be compared to Lord Byron whom he detests with the passion of a thousand academics — but he pauses instead, tilting his head as if to listen. “Is Macy finished?”

“Yeah, I think so. If you want a go at the bath, now would be the time.” 

“A shower sounds good,” he says, but doesn’t actually move to get up. “One thing first.”

“What?”

“How long are you going to keep staring at the door?”

The look Harry gives her is too knowing. Mel shifts on the couch, arms folded as she resumes her watch. “As long as I have to.”

“But you don’t have to. Mel, I promise you,” Harry says, flat and grim, “The Darklighter is dead.”

“There could be someone else.” With a bitter snort, she adds, “There’s _always_ someone else.”

“Fair point. But we’re cloaked and every point of entry has been magically secured. We’re as safe as we can be at the moment.”

“We can always be safer.” She shrugs. “A pair of eyes won’t hurt.”

A pause. Mel grinds her teeth harder the longer it goes on.

“Then I’ll stay up with you,” Harry finally says.

Something white-hot explodes in her chest. “Jesus, Harry, I get it,” she spits out, “You think I’m fucking useless. You don’t have to rub it in my face.”

“...I’m sorry?” 

“I think I can keep an eye on the door on my own, okay?” She digs her nails into her arms, trying to reel her temper back in. “I’ll call you if something happens. Go.”

“Mel, look at me.” When she doesn’t respond, he puts a hand on her shoulder, light and firm at the same time. “Please.”

When she turns, the expression on his face can only be described as bewildered annoyance.

“Right, thank you,” he says. He faces her square-on, head cocked expectantly. “Now please tell me what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”

The silent staring contest that ensues is a little ridiculous but Harry didn’t grow up with a little sister—as far as they know—so he’s not actually very good at playing the waiting game. He scoffs, rolling his eyes at the three-minute mark. If Mel wasn’t pissed off, she’d smirk.

“Fine,” he grinds out. “Let me take a stab at this. First off, the offer was meant in earnest, not as some veiled jab at you. Second, I have never thought of you as useless. Never will. Where did that even come from?”

Her turn to scoff. “You called me useless the second day we got here in Seattle.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“You benched me, remember? You said—”

“I said you were _defenseless._ ”

“Potay-to, potah-to.”

That earns her a sharp glance, reminiscent of the more unruly faculty meetings they’d had back in Hilltowne. “You’re just as much an academic as I was, Melanie. If you want an argument on semantics, I’m up for it. But in the interest of expediency and clarity, I’ll say it plainly—you _were_ defenseless. Certainly, you would have been useful in a fight. You’re resourceful and your hand-to-hand skills are excellent. But you didn’t have the means to defend yourself from a magical attack. At the time, at least.” He snorts, a surprisingly indelicate sound, mouth tugging upwards into a rueful smile. “Trust you to come up with a way to save the day anyway. You have no idea how relieved I was to be shoved against a wall by a pair of invisible hands.”

The corner of Mel’s mouth twitches in reluctant response. It isn’t until she feels the ache in her arms that she realizes her vice-grip has loosened. “Yeah, that was fun.”

“I’m sure,” he says dryly. The quick humor in his eyes fades, growing somber and intent. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, you and Maggie. You’re not useless. I’m sorry for making you think otherwise.”

Dropping her hands to her lap with a sigh, Mel mutters, “Maybe not completely useless, I guess. That’s something.”

“Did I not speak clearly enough?”

“Harry, keeping a fucking watch and yelling for you and Macy if I see trouble is literally the only thing I can do right now. In the grand scheme of things, that’s close to doing jack shit.”

“Yes, well,” he says, cocking an eyebrow, “In the grand scheme of things, you’re an idiot.”

“You know, I remember when your pep talks were a little less insulting.”

He snorts, but then belies the action by grabbing her hands gently, his palms more calloused than she remembers it being before their move. Her own hands, she knows, are littered with small burns and cuts from brewing and cutting ingredients for the potions she’s been trying to recreate. She refuses to let Harry heal them, a waste of his much needed energy and to remind herself that she hasn’t been idle even if the results have been less than stellar. The past couple of months have been rough on them all. 

“Mel,” he says, ducking his head to meet her eyes. The smile on his face is soft and fond. “If you hadn’t been there these last few days, I honestly don’t know what I would have done. You’ve been a rock, mine and Maggie’s, even when we were all losing our minds trying to find Macy. You had the presence of mind to save Maggie from that Malignant, never losing sight of your priorities. You were the one who thought to use the tracking spell, braving whatever consequences would follow. And ultimately, it was your efforts that led us to Macy.” He shakes his head, smile turning into a full-on grin. “I would never have got through that stupid poker game without you. And as terrible as the circumstances were, I can honestly say that the sight of you successfully bluffing an entire demon bar is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.”

“Their faces were fucking gold,” Mel says gleefully. The jagged ball of anger and frustration in her chest settles into something more manageable, something more like determination. “I kinda want to do that again.” 

“Not for a while, hopefully,” Harry says with a shudder, but the small twinkle in his eyes is telling. He squeezes her hands. “But truly, if it hadn’t been for you and everything you did, we’d still be in the Command Center twiddling our thumbs and Macy... Macy would still be—”

Suddenly, Mel finds herself with an armful of Whitelighter, being embraced within an inch of her life. She relaxes into it instinctively, hugging him back just as tightly. They’ve embraced several times before and while he never holds back, always heartfelt and sincere in his affections, he’s never held onto her like this. But while it may be unfamiliar from him, it’s all too familiar from the innocents she’s met. All too familiar from that witch in the barrel who’d surged forward, holding onto Mel and Maggie with the desperate gratitude of someone who’s life they just saved. 

Lavender still clings to his shirt, delicate but enduring.

Holding on tighter, Mel feels something small click in the back of her mind. The restless buzzing under her skin dies down, tension bleeding from the back of her neck, down her shoulders, down, down, down until it fades altogether. In place is nothing like security or even confidence, but she feels brighter, more hopeful. A little less terrified of whatever new threat is on the horizon. She glances over Harry’s shoulder at the front hall, at the moonlight streaming through the stained glass on the door. It’s empty and bare. Peaceful. She closes her eyes with a sigh.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs eventually, giving Mel one last squeeze before he pulls back.

“Anytime.” She bumps her fist onto his knee just to break up the sentiment. Then she shoves him down into the cushions before jumping up and taking off at a run. “I’m getting the shower first, loser.” 

“You have got to be—” _Bullseye_ , she thinks, as the throw pillow smacks him in the face mid-sentence. Running up the stairs as quietly as she can, she smirks at the indignant spluttering behind her. 

At the banisters next to the bathroom, she calls down triumphantly, “Snooze you lose!”

“Well I guess that’s you then,” he says, materializing in front of the bathroom door with a woosh. With an infuriatingly superior look, he steps inside and shuts the door on her face. “A bath or a shower? Hmmm. Decisions, decisions,” drifts through the door in a deliberately pitched tone.

“Cheater!” She kicks the door. “If you pass out in the tub because you’ve been orbing too much, I’m going to let you drown.”

“Worth it. Have fun waiting your turn!”

Mel huffs, and puffs, and kicks the door again but when Macy pokes her head out of her room to ask if everything’s okay, she can’t help the tug of a smile on her lips when she answers, “No, but I think we’re gonna be just fine anyway.”

  
  
  



	2. HP AU (First Year)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HP AU. A snippet of Mel and Harry's first year at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For future reference: Marisol, Dexter, and Ray are all alive. Everybody lives!

There were no nifflers behind the Quidditch pitch. Or doxies. Or flesh-eating slugs. Or anything interesting at all. When Mel got back to the castle, she was going to put every boring _normal_ slug she could find from here to there in Tommy Gudgeon's bed. That would teach him for lying to her.

She slipped and slid down the muddy hill, scanning the ground for the slimy little things. The hems of her robes were stained and her shoes were caked in mud, but one of the best things about Hogwarts was that nobody except some of the snooty Slytherins cared about things like that. And tomorrow, her things would be waiting at the foot of the bed, all cleaned up.

 _Like magic_ , she grinned to herself. Because everything here was magic and it was so much better than anything back in Michigan where the ghosts hide from people and her classmates thought she was weird. 

“ _Come back here, you little snot!_ "

Mel spun around just in time to see a ball of robes come tumbling downhill. It rolled right past her, stopping at the bottom. She ran down to it, almost stumbling right into the heap as she tripped over a rock.

The bundle of robes groaned. She poked it with her foot, jumping back when it twitched.

"Ow," it said, and a pale hand came out of the folds, pushing against the ground as it slowly sat up. Mel reached out, tugging the mess of black fabric down to reveal a red-faced boy, cheeks streaked with tears and mud. His eyes, watery and green, blinked up at her in surprise.

"Greenwood?" she said, frowning as the boy looked away, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robes. She hadn't spoken to Harry Greenwood much since the beginning of term even though they'd been sorted into the same House. He kept to himself in the dorms and during class, and was the odd duck out when he kept sitting with his sister at the Slytherin table during meals. "Why are you--"

"Found a friend, wimp?"

Mel balled her hands into fists, turning to glare up the hill. Two boys stood sneering down at them, green scarves flapping in the wind. They were taller and bigger than either Gryffindor but she was sure they were first years too. She didn't know their names but she thought she recognized them from potions class. 

"Oh look, it's the Gryffindor Yank," one of them said. He whispered something to his companion and they both smiled. "How about you run along, shrimp, and leave that snivelling coward to us. After all, girls shouldn't be playing in the mud."

"How about _you_ run along, jerkwads," Mel said, returning their sneer. She drew her wand, muttering quickly before they could react. A glob of muddy ground floated up, spinning in a lazy circle. Instinctively, she sent a zap of energy into the spell and her mud ball zipped through the air to hover over the boys' heads. "Unless you want to play in the mud too."

Jerk One and Jerk Two, as Mel had decided to call them in her head, watched the brown muck above them warily. Jerk One's face twisted in anger, shooting a poisonous look at Mel. "Don't you dare, you little half-blood."

"George," Jerk Two said, eyes wide as he tried to back away from the ball only for it to follow him around. "We can't be dirty or late for tea with Professor Slughorn. We simply can't."

"Shut up, Barclay."

"Word will get back to my mum and then she'll send a Howler in the post. I don't want a Howler, George. Let's just go. We can get Greenwood later."

"I said shut up!"

"Listen to your friend, _Georgie_ ," cooed Mel. She didn't know what a Howler was but it sounded delightfully bad. She was tempted to let the glob fall on them just to see what it was. Greenwood shifted behind her, probably trying to stand up. She stepped in front of him, gesturing him back down with a hand behind her back. “Before my grip slips.”

The boy called George snarled, then stomped down the hill. His friend scrambled after him, shooting nervous glances at the mud keeping pace above their heads. Mel kept herself between the Slytherins and Greenwood, staring the taller boys down with glee. George slowed down as he stalked past, tossing something at Mel--no, at Greenwood, who screamed and flung himself away from whatever it was. 

"What kind of Gryffindor are you, Greenwood?" George sneered. It seemed to be his favorite expression. He cocked an eyebrow at Mel. "You see? We're just doing your House a favor. You should be thanking us for weeding out the chaff."

Mel let the ball wobble threateningly. "Sounds to me like you want a bath."

The one with the weird name, Barclay, started pushing at the other boy's back. "Come on, George. Leave it."

"You can't hide behind skirts forever, Greenwood," George said, shooting a malicious smile past Mel. Then cold blue eyes were on her. "And next time, this little trick of yours won't work. I'm not in the habit of hexing little girls, but I think I'll make an exception for you."

"Bring it.” Mel smirked.

With a last parting glare, the Slytherin boys marched away, muttering angrily to each other. Mel waited until they'd disappeared around a bend down the path before relaxing. She watched the ball of mud she'd created, letting it float and sway for a few seconds longer before she disengaged the spell and it plopped back onto the ground. 

"That was brilliant," Greenwood’s soft voice said.

"I know. I’m awesome. Magic is so cool!" Mel turned, grin faltering as she looked at Greenwood still crumpled on the ground. "You can get up now, you know."

He shook his head, pointing at his feet. Mel noticed for the first time that they were bound together with some kind of rope. "I can't get these off. It's an enchantment and they tossed my wand somewhere up there." He gestured back up the hill. 

"Oh," Mel said, kneeling beside him to examine the binding. "What's the spell to get it off? I can do it."

"Finite Incantatem. Just point-- _aaaargh_!" Greenwood scrambled backwards, pushing away clumsily. "Get it away from me! Please, please, get it away."

"What? What?" Mel looked around wildly, trying to find whatever had frightened him. The clearing they were in was a muddy flat, with nothing around but rocks and twigs. "I don't see anything. What are you talking about?"

"Th-that," he stuttered, pointing at Mel with a trembling hand. His breathing was fast and shallow and tears were starting to form in his eyes. "Please, please."

Mel looked down at herself, but there was only the mud on her clothes and a few stuck pieces of grass. She pulled at her robes, craning her neck over her shoulder and then examining her sleeves. She blinked. "Is this it?" she asked, extending her elbow awkwardly to show Greenwood what she'd found.

He flinched, screwing his eyes shut. He held his hands in front of him like he was warding off evil. "Don't, please."

She stared at him, waiting for a few seconds to see if he was joking, then carefully plucked the enormous slug off her sleeve. George's aim was terrible, she thought. And then immediately felt guilty because Greenwood actually looked terrified. "It's okay," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "It's just a slug. It doesn't bite."

"I know, I know," he said, sounding absolutely miserable. He kept his head turned away and as the flush on his face crept down his neck, Mel noticed his scarf was missing too. "Could you take it away, please?"

"You say 'please' a lot," Mel said, dropping the slug into her bag. She wiped the slime off on her robes. "There, it's gone."

Greenwood darted a glance at her. "Where is it?"

"In my bag."

"What?" His voice went shrill with alarm. It would be funny if his face wasn't still a mess of tears and streaked mud. "Why?"

"I'm putting slugs in Tommy Gudgeon's bed later."

" _Why?_ "

"That's what liars get."

"But--but--" he spluttered, inching awkwardly away from her bag like there was a dangerous snake inside. "But my bed is next to his. Please don't."

Mel crossed her arms, mutinous. "I have to teach him a lesson. I wasted an entire afternoon looking for magical creatures because he told me they were here. He has to be punished."

"But--"

"He has to be punished."

"Alright, yes, I suppose he must," Greenwood hastily agreed. "Let me... let me help you." He looked liked he couldn't believe what he was saying. "But no slugs or anything that crawls in earth. Deal?"

"I don't need your help."

"It would be easier with two people. And..." He paused, thinking. "And I have better access to him, don't I?"

Mel thought about it, tapping her fingers on her arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the slug trying to wiggle out of the opening of her bag and shoved it back inside before Greenwood had another fit. "Fine." She stuck her hand out and shook his, a little surprised at how calloused it felt. He looked and sounded like one of those lily-white rich boys who got waited on hand and foot but maybe she was wrong about that. "Deal."

He slumped in relief. "Thank you."

"So what, do you have like a..." Mel tried to remember the word. "Like a phobia? You’re scared of creepy crawlies?"

He shrugged, looking away.

"Was George and that other one trying to make you touch one or something?"

"Something like that. There's a pit filled with...creepy crawlies under the Slytherin stands. They cast a body-bind curse on me and were going to leave me there."

Mel grinned. "But you escaped." She'd thought he was too soft and weak to be a Gryffindor but maybe she was wrong about that too. "Good one, Greenwood."

He looked suddenly shamefaced. "I didn't," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. He hugged his knees to his chest. "I was crying so hard they unbound me to see if I could still breathe. I wasn't even trying to escape. I just wanted to get away from--from the pit and the next thing I know I was tumbling down the hill."

"Oh."

He fiddled with the bindings around his feet. "Could you help me with this, please?"

It took Mel a few tries. Usually, magic came to her as easy as breathing, part of the reason why she’d been allowed to enter Hogwarts a year early. She'd never had to try a spell more than once to get it right, a fact that pleased her to no end. But it turned out getting rid of magic was harder than casting it.

"Finally," she said, tugging the weird silvery rope away from Greenwood's legs. As soon as it unwound completely, it vanished like smoke. She hauled him up with her. "Stay here while I get rid of this slug. I'll get your wand too."

He nodded, looking down at his feet. Even though he was taller than her by a few inches, he seemed so much smaller. It didn't help that he looked like a mess from head to toe.

"Do you have anything to clean up with?" 

Greenwood blinked, looking startled by the question. But he looked more alert as he patted his robes. "Yes, I have a pocket square somewhere."

"Figures," Mel said. She reached into her bag, digging out a slightly slimy flask of water. "You can use this. I'll be right back."

The pit was exactly where he'd said. It was about as wide and as deep as a grave. She hadn't seen a lot of those but she remembered the one from Tío Julio’s funeral. Instead of dumping the slug in, she let it out into the woods and promised herself to tell Hagrid about the poor little creatures stuck in the hole. Greenwood's wand took a little more searching, but she found it eventually, tossed into the middle of the pitch. She stood there for a while, looking up at the stands and goalposts, imagining herself flying rings around the opposing team. Maybe she'd be a Chaser. Or a Beater. She grinned, excited with the possibility. She hadn’t even touched a broom yet, but she had all of this year to prepare for next year's tryouts. She couldn't wait.

Greenwood was waiting for her exactly where she'd left him. There was no way to clean his robes, but he'd straightened the fabric out as best as he could and his hair had been patted down. She was pleased to see that even though he couldn't really do anything about the fact that he’d been crying, the rest of his face was clean enough so he only looked like he'd tripped on the ground instead of rolled in it.

"You look better," Mel said, tossing his wand over.

With surprising reflexes, he caught it easily, face brightening. "I feel better." He looked the wand over, holding it like it was as precious to him as Mel thought of hers. He tucked it carefully into his robes and turned to her shyly, holding out her flask. "Thank you for everything you've done. I'm terribly useless, I know, but you're absolutely brilliant. If there's anything at all I can do for you--aside from what I've already promised, I mean--please tell me."

"I didn't do it so you could owe me." Mel rolled her eyes. "We're Housemates, right? We back each other up. And even if we weren't, what kind of jerk wouldn't help out?"

Greenwood bit his lip. "I'm not sure if I could have.”

Mel opened her mouth automatically, then clicked it shut. Right. She didn't really have anything nice to say about that.

"Could you do me a favor?" Greenwood asked, tentatively. 

"Geez, how many more do you want?" Mel replied, irritated. A look of hurt crossed the boy's face but he was honestly pushing it. "Come on, out with it."

"Please don't tell Charity about what happened."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I promise I won't tell your sister."

Greenwood frowned. "Charity's not my sister."

Mel scrunched her face, confused. "She's not? But that's what everyone says. I thought you grew up together in the same house? I saw you with your parents at King's Cross."

There was an odd look on Greenwood's face. "I'm a ward of the Callahans, but they're not my parents."

"Isn't ward just another word for adopted?"

"No. Definitely not." He shrugged stiffly. "We have different last names, you know."

"So do me and my new sister." Which was still weird. It was a good thing Macy was in a different House. Even though their mom had encouraged them to be friends, they hadn't spoken more than a dozen words to each other since the Sorting. Mel didn't think they were avoiding each other on purpose. They just really didn't have anything in common. "It happens."

"Yes, but--" Now Greenwood looked confused too. "Charity gets terribly cross when people think we're siblings. Even if it were a possibility, I don't think she wants me as her brother."

"Why not?" She looked him up and down. His color was returning to a pasty white but his round cheeks were still blotchy red. He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes. "You're kind of a crybaby, but you're not that bad."

His eyes went wide. "Really? Do you mean it?"

"Don't let it get to your head, dweeb," she said, rolling her eyes. “So where are your parents then?"

"I don't know. I never met them."

"Oh." Mel bit her lip. "You know, we should probably go." She tugged her scarf off and wound it around his neck. "Couldn't find your scarf, but here. We'll pretend you have a cold or something so nobody sees how pathetic you look. Pull it up around your nose."

"Thank you," he said, voice muffled through the thick scarf. Only his puffy eyes and hand-combed hair peeked out over the red and gold. "You're so nice."

"I know. Now start walking before more Slytherins come." She grinned, punching a fist into her palm. "Or we can wait. I betcha I can get one in the nose before anyone can hex me."

Immediately, there was a round of muffled spluttering behind the scarf. Greenwood started to tug the cloth away from his mouth but the sudden sound of brooms whizzing near the Quidditch field froze them both. A murmur of clipped voices drifted downhill. Mel turned and reached for her wand, bracing her feet shoulder width apart just like her mom taught her. But just as shadows crested over the hill, surprisingly strong hands caught her elbow and started dragging her in the direction of the castle gates. 

"Oh come--" A slightly sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. Yuck. She slapped his hand away, making him yelp. "Your hand's disgusting."

"Shhh!" 

"Coward," she said, annoyed at the lost opportunity to kick some Slytherin ass. 

Greenwood said nothing, just put his head down and kept trudging through the muddy field. Guilt wormed into Mel's stomach, making her feel queasy. 

"Sorry," she said, even though she didn't mean it. 

He really wasn’t that bad. Harry Greenwood was kind, polite, and from what she’d seen in class, probably one of the brightest students in her year. But she was also more convinced than ever that he didn’t belong in Gryffindor. George and his friend deserved worse than a little mud--and she’d make sure they got it--but they had a point. The Sorting Hat had made a mistake. 

When she got back to the castle, she’d walk right up to Professor McGonagall’s office and talk to her about it. Surely the Headmaster would realize Greenwood was better off in a different House. It was for his own good.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU has been taunting me since December and I just really had to write it. It's blossomed into a whole thing in my head and this is a small part of it. Future HP AU chapters may jump around chronologically.
> 
> A small note about Harry's fear: his phobia was kind of a throwaway in the show, but that scene of him waking up in his grave in Season 2 gave me a plot-relevant idea for his fear of the creepy crawlies. 
> 
> Also...writing kids is an adventure. I have no idea if these kids actually sound like kids. 
> 
> Back to writing A Christmas Story.


	3. Mel whump, Harry whump (Ray's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray witnesses just how far Harry's willing to go to save Mel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Gore.

A terrible weight is crushing Ray's chest. He's felt terror before. Felt the clinging heaviness of guilt. The day he'd gotten the call that his daughters were dead was the worst day of his life. But the helplessness had been swift, grief knocking the breath out of him like a sucker punch before he was ready for it. There'd been nothing to do after the fact except get blackout drunk.

This time is almost worse because while Mel is still alive, he's just as useless. He'd been a liability during the fight, reliant on Harry and Mel to defend him, unable to stop his daughter from getting hurt. He can't do anything but watch his fiery, brave Mel bleed out on the shifting dunes, red soaking Harry's sleeves as he presses his hands desperately to the gaping wound on her stomach. There's no healing light, no magic--the sinister glow of the cuff around Harry's wrist means Ray's daughter is going to die. 

_Please_ , Ray begs in his mind, praying to any god who would listen. There has to be someone, anyone. Isn't magic just another word for miracle? He'd do anything for one right now. He'd sell his heart, his lungs, his soul. Anything. 

If anyone deserves to be granted a favor from the gods, it’s Mel. She’d saved him, saved Harry, even saved one of the assholes attacking them from friendly fire. It had ultimately been her undoing, vulnerable in a moment of distraction for someone Ray is fucking sure didn’t deserve it.

_Save her. Please, save her._

The desert doesn't answer, wind whipping hot sand around them without a care. The sky above is an endless shocking blue and less than an hour ago, Mel had squinted up with a grin, muttering, "Now that's fucking pretty."

His fault. It's all his fault. He should have been more careful, should have been more discreet. But the ugly little imp living inside him--greed--had whispered familiar words in his ear. Just one more, he kept telling Harry and Mel. Just one more chamber, one more tomb, one more artifact to examine until he'd led them straight into a trap. 

The bastards from the Faction had been following him all along. How long has his contacts been compromised? How long has he been leading his daughters to their death? Or maybe he'd spilled too much to a barfly somewhere, careless in the haze of a drink. Or two. Or ten. Like any respectable drunk, Ray’s sworn off alcohol at least a hundred times in his life but it never lasts. He's weak, always has been. But this time, he swears, it'll last for as long as he draws breath. More importantly, it'll last for as long as his daughter does.

_Please, I'll do anything. Just save her._

He remembers a passage somewhere about blood on sand, 'like rubies gleaming on a carpet of gold', but what a stupid, pretentious fucking thing that is when there's nothing beautiful about this at all. The sand swallows his daughter's blood hungrily, clumping ugly and dark under Harry's knees. All it looks like is mud.

"Ray!"

His daughter's going to die in the mud. Black spots dance in his vision, but all he can look at is red.

"God damn it, Ray! Mel needs your help!"

Like a shot, the words penetrate Ray’s panicked haze. He latches onto them like a man drowning, breath returning to him in noisy gasps. The darkness recedes.

"That's it," Harry says, voice steady if a little impatient. The determined urgency in his eyes is like a lifeline cast to sea. Ray runs when Harry beckons him closer, hope blooming desperately in his chest. "Come here. Come down here with me. I have a plan. Mel needs you."

Ray kneels. Blood is hotter than sun-baked sand, he realizes. His knees are soaked. "How? What do I do?"

"Mel’s jacket, left pocket. She has a potion that can slow bleeding. Pour it over the wound.” 

There’s a smooth, stoppered bottle exactly where Harry said. Ray holds it with trembling fingers, steadying one hand with the other while he pours. A strange mist comes off the gruesome wound, magic working to clot it unnaturally. Ray sags with relief as he watches the steady gush of blood slow down.

“Oh thank God,” he breathes.

But Harry shakes his head. “The effect won’t last long. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes at most.”

“Is there more of that potion?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Ray breathes, not panicking yet because there has to be a second part to this plan. “What now?” 

“She’s still bleeding so I need you to take over for me while I put a pressure wrap around the wound.”

" _Madre de Dios_ , Harry, this isn't a plan! First aid isn't going to help." Ray feels betrayed to have his burgeoning hope snatched away by this foolishness. He wants to shake the idiot, strip his denial and replace it with the reality that's been caving in Ray's chest. "We're in the middle of the Sahara. There isn't a town for miles. We don't even have a car because those idiots blew theirs up out of spite. She won't make it to a fucking doctor!" 

"I know that!" Harry levels a glare at him, green eyes blazing. Blood is running down the left side of his face and neck, soaking his collar, but he either doesn't care or doesn't notice. "I'm trying to--"

"Why are you shouting?” A weak voice interrupts. 

" _Mi hija,_ " Ray cries, relieved to see brown eyes squinting against the sun. He settles for a hand on Mel's knee, afraid to hurt her by accident or disturb Harry's position. He almost wishes she hadn't woken up, the pain etched on her face is something a father should never have to see. He blurts the first thing he can think of, "How are you feeling?"

Mel's eyes are wet, mouth gasping shallowly for air--every breath must be agony--but she still manages to stare at him like she can't believe he asked such a stupid question. She glances up at Harry, face pale and sweaty. "Bad?"

"Yes," Harry answers simply. He swallows, but his voice is calm when he explains the situation. "We’ve slowed the bleeding but we don’t have much time. No magic, no cell signal. We can't get your sisters here to unbind us or get us back to the Command Center. We should have taken a marble with us instead of orbing. I'm so sorry, Mel. This is my fault."

"No, it's mine," Ray says because it is. He might be useless but he's not letting anyone else take the blame for this fuckup. They can’t even get out of the fucking sun because he’d picked up the artifact keeping the ancient temple intact. There isn’t any rubble left behind, every bit of stone sunk deep into the sand for the rest of time. What a sorry Aladdin he makes. He’d give anything right now for a magic lamp. "I led us to this--"

A thunderous frown overtakes the pain on Mel's face for a moment. "Shut up. Idiots. Not--" A pained whimper steals the rest of her words, eyes screwing shut with a grimace. It sounds too close to a sob and Ray’s heart squeezes tight like a used rag.

Harry bends down suddenly, pressing his forehead to Mel's. The angle is awkward, his hands still pressed tight to her abdomen, but Ray can see her relax just the tiniest bit at the contact. "It'll be alright, Melanie. I promise."

"F-fuck, it... hurts, Har." 

"I know, I know. It won't be for much longer, but I need you to hold on. Alright? Just hold on."

"Okay."

The absolute trust in that one word floors Ray. Mel had shared that trust with Marisol and Maggie--the only people he’s ever seen his stubborn, independent daughter completely comfortable with. He hasn’t seen enough of Macy to judge, but she’s Marisol’s blood and that counts for more than Ray is willing to admit even now. But a stranger she’s only known for a couple of years? An English _man_ with the kind of fancy accent he knows Mel has sneered at in the past? 

When Harry presses a kiss to Mel’s forehead and no explosion of anger and indignation follows, Ray can only stare in disbelief. Mel mutters, “Gross,” but the corners of her mouth are curved in a genuine smile. 

Ray’s never felt more like an outsider in his daughter's life than in this moment. This man that Ray’s been wary of from Day One is family to Mel in a way that should only be reserved for blood. And even then, he knows from personal experience even that isn’t always enough. For a moment, Ray is furiously envious.

"Alright,” Harry says, turning to him as if he hasn’t just accomplished what Ray has never been able to. “Ready?”

Ray’s hands clench into fists. "I told you--"

"Ray," Mel says, more air than sound. She looks up at him, dark eyes steady despite the watery sheen. "Trust him."

And suddenly, Ray finds the pettiness and envy easy to push aside. He takes over for Harry, grimacing at the slick warmth pooling under his hands. The sound Mel makes when he accidentally pushes too hard will haunt his nightmares.

They work quickly. Harry sheds his coat, wadding it up over the wound as Ray pulls his own belt tight around it. Mel goes white when they secure the wrap, cursing them both out with shuddering breaths that only seem to make the pain worse. But when Ray grips her hand, she grips back with crushing strength. 

He almost laughs, heart thumping with pride and fear. 

God, she's so strong.

But he still doesn't know what the point of all this is, what they're buying time for. Harry's searching the bodies, the wreckage of the car. Ray keeps watch over Mel, shielding her from the sun as much as he can.

"Whatever you're doing, hurry the fuck up, will you?" He shouts at Harry’s darting figure, the passage of time and blood clawing at his nerves. 

Mel somehow finds the strength to huff at him. "Don't...shout at him."

Fine. But he can still curse the man in his head. He's just learned a bunch of new ones from Mel, after all.

Finally, Harry returns, a sheathed machete in one hand and a singed metal box in the other.

"These aren't for Mel," Harry says before Ray can even open his mouth. He sets the box down several feet away, gesturing for Ray to join him.

Ray gives Mel's hand another squeeze before he lets go. "Hold on,  _mi hija_.” 

"What...?" Mel asks, trying to look but Harry seems to have positioned them deliberately so she can't.

Harry hands Ray the machete without a word.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" Ray asks, sliding the blade carefully from its sheathe. The handle is a little slick with blood--smeared from Harry’s hands and now his own--but he’s familiar enough with this kind of grip. On expeditions, he carries similar tools. He prefers the more versatile saws but he’s found machetes better for clearing the thick underbrush of hot, muggy jungles.

Harry sinks to his knees in the sand, folding his left sleeve up to the elbow. He unbuckles his belt, setting it down by his side, and lays his bare forearm on the flat surface. He points at the binding cuff on his wrist. "You're getting this off me."

"I thought we needed magic to do that?"

"Yes, but we're circumventing the cuff. We've no access to magic but perhaps a practical solution might work. Chop here."

Ray thought he'd already felt all the horror he could feel today but it turns out he's wrong. He steps back, eyes wide as Harry draws a grotesque line through the blood on his wrist. 

"Right above the cuff," Harry says casually, like he hasn't just asked Ray to chop off his hand. "Not below, alright? We need to sever it completely."

"Oh, _Jesus_ , you've got to be fucking kidding me."

The crazy bastard huffs at him impatiently. "Dead serious. Come on, get on with it. Mel hasn't got much time left." He shoves the belt between his teeth and gives Ray an expectant look.

"You're out of your fucking mind," Ray's grip on the handle shifts uneasily. He wants to save his daughter desperately, but the thought of sinking the sharp blade into another man's skin, cutting through muscle and bone makes his stomach roil. "There has to be--"

Harry's rips the belt out of his mouth. "She's dying and you're wasting time!" All the calm is gone, voice breaking with fear and panic. Harry's mouth tightens into a thin line before he shoots up to his feet and reaches for the blade in Ray's hand. "To hell with it. I'll do it myself."

"Do what?" Mel demands, her pained gasps doing nothing to diminish the authority in her voice. Ray thought she'd passed out, but of course she's going to see this through, hole in her stomach be damned. "Tell me."

Backing away from Harry, machete behind his back, Ray explains, "He wants me to chop off his hand."

"What."

"To remove the cuff so I can heal you," Harry adds, in a tone that suggests he finds this perfectly reasonable and can't understand why they don't. 

"You can't--"

"Oh for heaven's sake. Mel, you're running out of time. I'll be fine,  _you'll_ be fine, and we can finally get out of this blasted hellhole."

“Will it grow back?” Ray asks, suspecting that “fine” doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

Harry looks bewildered at the question, staring at Ray like  _he's_ the lunatic. "It doesn't matter," he says, enunciating slowly as if he's talking to a small child.

Chucking the machete at the man's head is probably counter-productive so Ray manfully resists the urge. 

"Harry," Mel growls, then has to catch her breath as a cough overtakes her, wet and harsh. She pats the hot sand next to her. "Come here."

"Mel--"

"Now."

Lips pursed, Harry hurries over. Mel reaches out, arm shaking, but she manages to close her fingers around his bound wrist. He leans down so she doesn't have to fight to raise her voice. 

Ray stands back, watching, sweat trickling down his neck as the two of them talk quietly. Every second feels like an eternity. At the same time, every breath feels like they have no time at all. The blood on his hands is becoming sticky. 

The voices that float up with the wind sound exasperated. Annoyed. Fond. Hers and his. Mel apparently becomes pissed off enough to raise her voice again and Ray hears her say, “Do I get a choice?” 

Eyes going wide, Harry rears back as if he’s been struck. “Of course. Always,” he says immediately, then his face crumples, eyes going liquid soft. “Please, Mel, let me do this. You’d do the same for me.”

For the first time since Ray’s known the man, the British reserve is nowhere in sight. The usually stiff line of his shoulders is soft, imploring. His head is bowed toward Mel, the tilt of his chin lacking impatience or stoicism. Vulnerable. He’s looking at Mel with such open emotion that Ray feels suddenly validated about all the suspicions and doubts he’s been harboring for the past few months.

He’d asked Maggie and Mel, in the beginning, who exactly this man was--why he’s living with them, why they trust him with their lives, how he's wormed his way into their hearts. Not exactly in those words because Mel had glared at him suspiciously, but eventually, they’d said: 

“He’s our Whitelighter,” like it means something sacred, something elemental like the sun or the moon or even air. Constant and necessary without need for explanation. 

And they’d also said:

“He’s Harry,” in almost the exact same way, except for the affection they’d curled around the syllables like a warm hug, familiar and lived-in. From Maggie, it hadn’t been a surprise--she loved easily and freely. From Mel, it was alarming. Ray had suspected from then on that the man might be more dangerous to his daughters than any demon they’ve faced.

After all, he knows better than anyone that love cuts just as sharp as any random malice. And sometimes, even deeper. He's been running from his sins and Marisol's for too long to deny that betrayal comes in many forms.  


“Okay,” Mel whispers, and Ray knows the pained expression on her face has nothing to do with the wound on her stomach. Harry smiles gratefully at her, but Mel only sighs and closes her eyes. 

Ray considers the sharp gleam of the blade’s edge, flicking a glance at Mel's fingers digging into Harry's wrist. He was right--Harry Greenwood is a danger to the only people left in the world that he cares about.

He'd just been wrong about what kind.

Maggie had nearly sacrificed herself for Ray once and he’d spent weeks terrified of it happening again. It claws itself back in his nightmares occasionally, and on those nights he wakes up shaking like a leaf.

He can’t imagine what it’s like to live with that fear as a reality every single day of his life. To care for someone with such a shit sense of self-preservation must be its own special hell. How is he supposed to protect his daughters from that kind of heartbreak? 

Harry kneels down beside the metal box, looking expectantly up at Ray once again. This time, Ray nods, resigned.

God, he feels so tired. Mel is still dying and now Ray is about to chop off a man’s hand. Bile rises in his throat, but in the end, he finds he can swallow it down, after all. 

“Okay, you crazy bastard,” he says, steeling himself. He pushes his filthy glasses up his nose, wipes his hand and the machete off as best as he can on his shirt. “I guess we’re doing this.”

“Ray?” Mel calls out, sounding stronger than she’s been since Ray let his eldest get run through with a fucking pike. Anger must be fueling her. “Make it as clean as you can.”

“You can reattach it?”

“We’re sure as hell going to try.”

“You know, even if we can’t,” Harry says, “I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have a hook hand.”

“Fuck you,” Mel says.

Harry laughs, an incongruous sound amidst the carnage around them. Ray wonders at the turn his life has taken that he’s now following the lead of someone who’s probably a few fries short of a Happy Meal. Then again, he can see the reluctant smile pulling at Mel’s mouth so maybe that’s not so bad.

Wiping sweat off his face with his sleeve, Ray gets into position. He grips the machete tight, taking a couple of practice swings to adjust his aim. Harry watches him calmly, although his jaw goes tight when the sharp edge hovers over his skin. 

Ray pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Is Macy going to kill me if I mess this up?” 

“Of course not,” Harry says.

“Totally,” Mel counters. 

“Don’t listen to her, she’s delirious.” Harry tries to smile reassuringly, but half his face is covered in blood and there’s a slightly manic look in his eyes so Ray just sighs to himself. He did offer the gods anything they want. If this works, Macy roasting him for mutilating her boyfriend will be one of the best bargains Ray has ever made in his life.

He raises the machete above his head. “Ready?”

Harry nods, shoving the belt back in his mouth, but not before he looks over at Mel and says, with dark amusement, “Come on, Ray. Chop, chop.”

Mel groans. “I will strangle you with your own hand, Greenwood.”

Ray shakes his head. He still doesn’t really understand what a Whitelighter is or how his daughters have come to trust this man so completely. How they’ve come to see him as family. But Ray thinks he’s beginning to.

He takes a deep breath--and swings.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.
> 
> Finally caught up to the rest of Season 2. Many thoughts but overall... I enjoyed this season a lot. More on that on my tumblr (omnomtonystark.tumblr.com) in the coming days. 
> 
> So many ideas! I don't know why I wrote this one first when I have so many fics to update. In any case, I'm writing something for my Charmed One-Shots but after that I'll be working on finishing _ripple_ and _A Christmas Story_. This long hiatus is going to drive me insane, but it's also kind of nice because, seriously, SO MANY IDEAS.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry and Mel's dynamic is the best. As much as I'm enjoying S2, the lack of my favorite relationship from S1 is frustrating. So I'm dedicating this work entirely to them, filling in missing scenes, episode tags, and whatever else I can think of. These will be terribly self-indulgent and there are so many other things I should be writing right now but I just had to squeeze this in.
> 
> Prompts welcome.


End file.
